


Revelations in blood, forced with tenderness

by Nalyra



Series: Stormy blue, tinged with sunlight and tar [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, M/M, Murder Husbands, POV First Person, POV Hannibal, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalyra/pseuds/Nalyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibals PoV, engaging the dragon. All he focuses on is Will :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations in blood, forced with tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I need to write Hannibal in first person. *shrugs*
> 
> I would appreciate feedback on what you think -very- much!!!
> 
> Hannibals thoughts for the events in [A blackish red hue](http://archiveofourown.org/series/446146).

The wet slap of the knife breaching him echoes through me, a snarl breaking free. His hands shoot up, clamping on the arms that suspend him, and the aroma of his blood wafts over, splendid, mixed with adrenaline and guilt, tempting like a sirens call and my mouth waters, the need settling in my gut. 

He is thrown outside like a doll and I watch the shadow descend upon him, finally taking the attention away from me and I force myself into motion, pressing a hand to my side, to the wound he so instinctively knew never kept me down in the first place. 

I take my blazer off and position the camera, a sharp whip lash of fury running through me at the sounds I can hear. I would know his moans everywhere, haunting my dreams awake and not, carefully cultivated in halls of my beginnings. It’s an obsession, really, collecting every last impression, every sound and motion and yet one I am willing to bend to, toxic for my disposition as it may be. 

He is pulled up, and I make my way outside, quickly, taking the jump, just in time to see him flail beautifully, blackish red perfecting him already, stark contrasts in the pale moonlight. I am flung around, almost off the cliff, and what an irony that would be. I take a moment to search for the position lights and bow my head in relief when I can spot them near the horizon, the ship still far off but there, although the action makes me too late in reaction to counter the blow to the bullet wound, and I fall back, fresh blood oozing from the wound.  
I hear his pained moan from the other side, can hear the wet squishing of the knife being pulled from flesh and I want to be there, want to see, want to push my hands into that wound, feel his pulse throb around my intrusion. He rears up, the knife going in twice before he falls again, and I remind myself that there is a reason we’re doing this together, this, our first hunt although he would probably not dare to name it such.

The axe goes deep, again, our victims blood mixing with his blood, slippery on the stones. He forces himself up, wild and untamed, in black and blue, red and white and I am transfixed in his gaze, broken open and pinned, and I wish to taste him so badly I ache with it. I take my pound of flesh, surrendering to the need to bite, and he, he leaves his smile and I revel in the brilliancy of it as I swallow the bite down before stepping back, offering myself.

It has been exhausting, really, though I am not as badly wounded as he is, all things considered, though probably and maybe just not yet. He has to come to me, has to want it, this Baptism to his final becoming and I am breathless, watching him make his way over on hands and knees, bloody and victorious and I tilt my head back slightly, my memory place filled with the sight of him against the moon and stars, a wild thing with horns and teeth, equal to my own and there is a pang in my chest, often felt in his presence and yet it now viciously hurts and I belatedly realize its meaning, the spell broken when he speaks, words mumbled, blood dripping from his mouth.

„It really does look black in the moonlight.“

He reaches for me and how, how could I not, I pull him up and to me, wishing, wishing and my eyes close, the heat and smell of him taking all thought away. I force them open again, looking at him, my voice betraying my emotions absolutely, maybe for the first time in decades.

„See? This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.“

I force it out, my throat tight, aware of that it makes me vulnerable, puts me at his mercy, but forcing it, knowing well the slim chances for every next step. 

„For both of us.“

He pulls himself up in my arms, and raises his head to look at me and for an instant I am afraid, the feeling so alien it flays me open ever more. He smiles at me and the words ‚it’s beautiful’ that seal our fate seem far away, echoing in my heart, piercing through a fog of brilliant exultation, and I feel so much that all that I can do is pull him in, a startled pant stuck in my throat when he puts his head on my shoulder and melds into me and I force myself to breathe again, him all I want to experience, ignoring the fact that this will be for them to see if and when they find the camera. It is not theirs to observe and yet, yet I could not be more uninterested in them knowing. There is nothing more important than this, here, now.  
I can feel him shift and I feel like crying, his becoming beckoning, just a small shift of gravity away and I breathe deeply when the world finally tilts, flinging my arm from his back to the side, turning us, and it’s perfect, we’re twirling, an eternity of calm acceptance and peace in our arms and beckoning salvation in the depths. 

And just beyond our destiny in blood and breath and pain, fueling -our- becoming. 

If we dare.


End file.
